The Problem With Fics
by A.E. Harbuthnaut
Summary: A girl writes a fic, but then is transported into it. There is, however, a rather large problem. Read to find out. The right Chapter 7 is up! Abandoned.
1. Default Chapter

Hi all~ this isn't a new chapter or anything, it's just my disclaimer. I forgot in my forgot in my first chapter. So here goes: Anything that you recognize is not mine, nor am I getting paid for any of this. So far, I own Anna (that would be the narrator, but I don't believe that you know that yet…) and Kait (who is based on the author Nip, but she won't let me use her real name). This is a better version of what I put up two days ago. Also, I am looking for a beta…until I get one, you people are going to have to deal with my awful grammar. Sorry. 

So that is my disclaimer. Please review me, I don't really care if you flame me if you really think that I deserve it, and I know that the format of the first chapter is off, but I don't know how to fix it, so if one of you lovely readers would review and tell me…I would appreciate it very much (wink wink nudge nudge). 

"I'm going to write a Holmes fic." I announced to my friend Kaitlyn.

"Anna don't. You are butchering one of the best characters in English literature. Please please don't write it!"

"Chill Kait. It's not like it's meant to be taken seriously. And," I added, "It will not be one of those scary slash ones." (A/N: I have nothing against slash fics, but I don't think that they should be written about these people.)

"Is it going to be one of those silly back in time fics, where he finds his soul mate from the future, only to have her ripped away by the cruel hands of fate?" she asked me melodramatically. 

"As a matter of fact, no. She will be ripped away by the cruel hands of death." At her puzzled expression I elaborated. "Well, if I am going on the theory that he existed, Mary Russell must have existed as well, and I don't want to screw things up for them."

Kait rolled her eyes at me, saying "What a waist of time!", and I just sighed.

*~*~*

About three weeks later, my fic was done, and I had read the last tear full review, yelling at me for killing my main character. I had explained it from the beginning: I had to, because I did not want to screw things up for Holmes and Mary. Honestly, these people just didn't understand.

At that precise moment, the phone rang. It was Kaitlyn, telling me to be at her house as quickly as I could manage, which was pretty fast, considering that I lived in the dorm room right next door. Oh, I should probably have told you that we were in college. Both of us were attending Oxford, but we had grown up as neighbors in a backwoods town in New York.

Anyway, I showed up about a minute later, wearing a clingy powder blue sweater and a black skirt with blue and beige flowers on it that belled out around my ankles, was prodded onto a masking tape _X_ on her floor. I stood, looking up cautiously, expecting an anvil to drop on my head, or something equally as pleasant. When I was not beheaded after several moments, I looked at her in askance.

"You, my dear, are about to be a guinea pig in one of the greatest experiments of all time! I will be attempting to send you to another dimension via the wormholes that are left over from the big bang! Are you ready to make history?" she glanced at my Sunday Mediocre (A/N: it's a spoof on Sunday best, its not quite best, so it's mediocre.) and added, "Why are you wearing that ridiculous outfit?" 

"I am wearing 'this ridiculous outfit' because I promised Alex that I would go to church with him this evening. And as for making history, yeah what ever you say." I sighed, wondering how long this would take. Kait tapped a few keys on her almighty laptop, and suddenly there was a huge flash of brilliant blue light. My cry of "holy sh*t" was barely heard over the roar that followed the light. Then there was blackness.

*~*~*

I woke to the gathering dusk on a damp sidewalk and I sat up. I had an awful headache, and the world spun before my eyes as I tried to focus on my surroundings. The first thing that struck me as odd was the lack of streetlights. There weren't any, or at least, no normal ones. There were some candles on really long sticks, which men on stilts were walking around and lighting. I blinked several times, trying to clear my head. I thought that I saw several shapes moving in the haze around the small area that I could see clearly, and was sure when I felt one of them grab my shoulder. 

"What are yeou doin' 'ere? Innit a bit late for a laidee to be out alone? Unless yeou ain't any better then yeou're worth. That's wot Oi fink. Wodda ya say, laidee? Yeou want ter have some fun wiv me?" the man's breath stank of cheep gin and general rot. I looked up at him, trying to figure out if he was serious or not. I found out that he was when he leaned in with a cheep imitation of a kiss and tried to alleviate me of my sweater at the same time. I kicked him in the groin to try to get him off of me, and was rewarded by a satisfying groan of pain as he doubled over. However, he recovered impossibly quickly and hit me with what felt like all his strength (but most likely wasn't) in the head. Pain exploded behind my eyelids and I crumpled to the ground for the second time that evening. The man advanced on me and I resigned myself to what I knew was coming. I heard a gun being cocked very close to me, and thought ' So much for Kait and making history.'

To my eternal surprise, the gun never went off. There was a quiet exchange between the man that…well…and another voice, the unmistakable drawl of a well educated English gentleman. The thug backed down (likely because he had the maw of a gun in his face) and walked away quickly. My vision was starting to fail again, but before I blacked out completely, I saw the flash of steely gray eyes, and heard that same drawl pronounce some rather unkind words. He lifted me gently into his arms and started walking out of the darkened alley that I had been collapsed in. after the third step in the lighted street, however, the blackness swallowed me, and I knew no more.

Well, there you go. Chapter one of my new fic. Enjoy and R/R! 


	2. In Which I meet Mr Holmes and Dr Watson

Hi again! I'm back, and, as I said in my new and improved version of chapter one, am trying to find a beta…so if any of you guys want to help, let me know.

Anyway, the usual disclaimer applies: I only own Anna and Kait, and I apologize if Holmes is a bit out of character, I have only read the Laurie King books, so that is what I'm working off of. I will reply to reviews at the end.

They told me later that I had been unconscious for several days, but all I remember is waking up screaming into a masculine waistcoat. ( I have a past, but I will get into that later…) Strong arms were rapped around me, and I got the distinct impression of being suffocated before I succumbed to the blackness again. 

I suppose that it was several hours later that I woke up completely and took in my surroundings. I was in a picturesque Victorian bedroom that looked as if it hadn't been occupied for quite a while. It was done in blues, I noticed abstractly. 

Just then, the door swung silently open, and a portly man with a doctor's bag came in. He saw that I was awake and smiled. I returned the gesture, albeit a bit shakily. My head was throbbing and all I really wanted was a triple dose of Advil and about three days more sleep. Or a really strong drink. While I was debating which to ask this man (who was obviously a doctor) for, he pulled a chair around to the side of my bed and started to take my pulse. I sighed and let him get through the normal medical checkup that accompanied a serious injury while wondering what B&B I was in. 

Yep, folks, I really and truly thought that I was in a bed and breakfast. The option of time travel didn't even cross my mind. It honestly didn't occur to me that Kaitlyn's little experiment worked. Boy was I ever wrong.

My first clue that something major was wrong was when the doctor asked me, "Are you quite alright, Miss?" his voice and tone were purely English. That in itself would not have normally thrown me off because I had been in school in Oxford for nearly two years. It was the fact that he addressed me as 'Miss'. No one had ever addressed me as Miss before. Just face it, the people in our society are not that polite. However, I could not just sit there and stare at him, so I answered as politely as I could, considering the amount of pain that I was in. 

"Um, truthfully, it feels like my head is gonna explode. Do you have any Aspirin?"

"Oh yes, how terribly remiss of me!" he exclaimed. He turned behind him and mixed a powder into a cup of tea that I hadn't even seen behind him, and handed it to me. 

"Drink it all, please." He instructed. I did as I was told and nearly choked on the taste.

"My God, what is in this rot? Opium?" I realized belatedly that that would be construed as very rude and tried to temper it with what I hoped somewhat resembled a smile. It had to have worked, because when I looked back at the Doctor, he was chuckling. "What?!?" I demanded. 

"Nothing, Miss, nothing. Yes, there was an opiate in your tea." His jovial face suddenly fell. "You are not addicted to the poppy, are you?" The look of absolute abhorrence must have reassured him, because he nodded once and told me, "I shall go and tell my roommate that you are awake. I know that he wants very much to talk to you."

"Wait a minute, this isn't a B&B? Or a really high end hospital?" he looked confused as he walked out, but declined to comment. 

I didn't have to wait very long for the doctor's roommate, and the man that, I assumed, had saved me in that alley from that man that thought that I was a hooker. At that thought, memory returned full force and I relived the conversation with Kait, the light, the pain as my skull made contact with the pavement, the man who thought that I was no better than I ought to be, the fight that ensued from that incorrect assumption, more pain, and the man that saved me. It also occurred to me that the man who pulled me out of a nearly deadly situation was most likely the same man whose waistcoat that I woke screaming into.

Amusement and embarrassment warred inside me; eventually amusement won out. I was shaking my head (which seemed oddly disconnected from my shoulders, no doubt from the drug that the doctor had dosed me with) at my own stupidity when the door banged open and a very tall man with black hair and oddly familiar gray eyes strode in before the doctor. He threw himself into the chair that the doctor had occupied and looked at me hard.

I matched him stare for stare, and he was the one that looked away first. His eyes took in my entire figure and I was suddenly very uncomfortable in the nightgown that…someone…had lent me. He seemed to perceive my feelings as soon as I did, and averted his gaze. 

"You will forgive me, I am sure, for being blunt, but I find that you present a pretty intellectual problem. You appeared out of thin air in a dark alley, and proceeded to try to take on a man nearly three times your size. I can tell you quite a few things about yourself, madam, but what I want desperately to know is this: who are you?" 

By this time I had a pretty good idea of who he was, and where I was, but how I got there still blew my mind. Even so, I thought that it would be fun to mess with the Great Detective's head.

"Why don't you tell me? You _are_ the Great Detective, after all." His gray eyes lit at the challenge, and he stood to pace.

"I have before me a young woman, no more that twenty years of age, who has been highly educated, has an interest in theater, and was born in America. New York, if I am not mistaken. She plays the piano, although she did not have many formal lessons. She is fond of writing, and is right handed. Furthermore, she has a longhaired dog that enjoys sitting in your lap." I sat there in the silence that followed his pronouncement and stared at him. "Well?" he demanded impatiently.

"Right on all counts. Is there anything that you want me to fill in? And, I had a bag with me in the alley, did you happen to pick it up when you…brought me here?"

He looked at me for a moment and then grinned. "Actually, your name might be helpful."

"Duh!" I reached up to smack myself in the head, and realized that that would probably be a bad idea, and stopped my hand mid-smack.

"My name is Anna Jonsen, and yes, I grew up in New York."

"Well, Miss Jonsen-"

"Anna." I interrupted firmly.

"Anna" he conceded. "Welcome to Baker Street"

"Uh thanks."

"You are welcome. How long to you intend to stay?"

"Uh…"

"Now Holmes," the Doctor, who was the equally famous Watson, protested. "You can't expect her to pick up and leave. For one, she is hurt and needs bed rest, also, you don't even know if she has relatives in London. I propose that she stays here with us. There is no reason that she could not occupy this very room."

"Watson, that is not a wise idea. We know next to nothing about the girl and-"

"HELLO!!!! I am right here! It would be nice if you would refrain from referring to me as if I were a million miles away!" 

They both looked at me like I was a raving lunatic, but they addressed me this time.

"Anna, do you have any relatives in London at present?" Holmes asked me in a clipped voice.

"Um, no. All of the relatives that I have ever met haven't been born yet. I'm from the future. 2006, to be precise."

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Brink: thank you! I am glad that you like it! I will read yours when I am done uploading this.

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Chibi Hermione: thank you! I will read yours after I read Brink's. 

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Louise: I am glad that you like this. The "thrown into a fic" has been done, but not for Holmes. 

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Aurora Magician: wow! That was really long! I tried to use your suggestions, let me know what you think of this chapter. Your review was really helpful, thank you!

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Kerowyn: I am glad you like my 'twist'. I am working on the format. I put up a new chapter one that had my disclaimer in it, but it hasn't showed up on the site yet… Is your name from The Green Rider? 


	3. In Which Stuff Happens sorry, I'm bad wi...

Hi yet again…usual disclaimer applies, and the plot may even make an appearance this chapter! This story does have one, I promise. On to chapter three: In Which Stuff Happens.

They looked at me like I was totally insane for a long moment, then Holmes said, "Prove it."

"Fine. You want to hand me the bag that I came with?" he reached down to the floor to retrieve the bag that lay half concealed beneath the bedclothes and dumped it into my lap. I glared at him and then upended it.

Many 'strange' things tumbled onto the white sheet: a cell phone, a walkman, several brick sized paperbacks, and two bottles, one filled with a thick whitish subliminal solid, and the other filled with what looked suspiciously like blood. 

I flipped the cover on the phone, hoping against hope that it worked and I would be out of this time before very long, but to my unending chagrin, the phone that was supposed to have service everywhere was roaming.

I looked up Holmes and Watson and said, "You know, modern conveniences are highly overrated. Never trust a cell phone, especially when you really need it." They looked a bit bemused, but refrained from comment. I went back to rummaging. 

After some deliberation, I decided that my CD player would be the best means of convincing them, but the problem was that I had the Jagged Little Pill by Alanis Morisette in. 

If you've never heard the album, take my word for it that it would not be appropriate for two well-mannered Victorian English gentlemen. However, there was nothing else I could do; I had to prove my case and that was the only way to do it. Hence, I threw caution to the wind and said to Holmes, "Alright, come here."

He looked at me for a moment and then leaned in. I settled the headphones over his ears and pressed play. The song that was on was 'You Oughta Know '. As the lyrics flooded into his ears he turned pale. As the song hit the middle, he tore the headphones from of his ears and walked disgustedly out of the room. 

Watson watched his friend leave the room then turned to me quizzically. I answered the unspoken question in his eyes. "The lyrics of the song are…questionable…at best. I should have looked at the song before I played it for him. I hope that I didn't pis- I mean I hope I didn't make him too terribly angry." 

"I am sure that he will be more in control of himself the next time that you see him." Watson said, not really answering the implied question. "However, you should get more sleep, you hit your head quite hard. Would you like a sleeping draught?"

I shook my head and laid back down, realizing that I _was_ still tired. I heard Watson chuckle as he left the room. My last conscious thought was that this whole episode was playing out very like the fic that I had just recently finished. But that was impossible, I thought, people don't just get sucked into fics. But they usually don't get shot back in time either, a logical bit of my mind told me. I shook my head and put these disturbing thoughts out of my head for a time when I had more leisure to think about it, like when my head wasn't threatening to explode. 

*~*~*

The next morning found me in the very well stocked kitchen of the Baker Street apartments. 

I had woken up at four o'clock in the morning and, unable to go back to sleep, wondered down to explore the house. Now, I have a…rather unusual nervous habit: where most people bite their nails or the inside of their lip, I bake. A lot. The first time that my mother came to my dorm to visit, I broke into the campus kitchen and came out with four cakes, a gross of cookies, and two pies. But I digress.

It was eleven in the morning when Holmes dragged himself out of bed and went looking for people. I assumed, because I didn't see her, that it was Mrs. Hudson's day off. Holmes was obviously foraging for food, and he stopped short when he saw me in the kitchen. I honestly think that he forgot that he had another roommate, of sorts, in the house and that he thought that I was the cat burglar. He pulled himself together and took in the singular sight that was his landlady's kitchen.

I had been there, as I said, for seven hours, and let me tell you: there is a lot that you can bake in seven hours. I had turned out three trays of danishes, four of scones, a batch of rum balls, and a raspberry tart. I spun on my heal when I heard his footsteps behind me and said, very eloquently, "Um, do you want something to eat? As you can see, you have quite a bit to choose from."

"How long have you been awake?" He asked, still standing in the doorway, wrapped 

in a silk dressing gown. The sight of him still in pajamas reminded me that I was only wearing a nightgown, but I was ok with that and he either didn't notice or didn't care.

"Seven hours." It didn't sound nearly as stupid in my head as it did out loud and to the Great Detective.

"Go back to bed." He ordered me. "Watson said that you may have a concussion and that standing and walking around may not be favorable to your delicate health."

"First of all, I can't go back to bed because I have cookies in the oven, and secondly, I am fine. I have, after all, been upright and moving around for seven hours and I haven't passed out yet."

"You should not be up. And, for that matter, if you insist on being up and about you may want to put more clothing on."

I blushed to the roots of my hair, but stood my ground. "There is no reason for me to go back to bed and, if you haven't noticed, this is an exceedingly stupid argument. We really should give it up, call it a draw and have brunch."

He seemed to consider this for a moment, then his face broke out into a smile and he offered me his arm. I raised an eyebrow at him, but took it and let him lead me to the small round table. He pulled out my chair for me and I sat, trying to stifle my giggles. I was trying to picture a guy from college having manners, and was having a hard time doing it. He must have seen my huge smile because he said, "Pray tell me what you find so amusing, that I may share the joke." 

"I was just trying to picture some of the guy-I mean some of the young men that I go to school with having as many manners as you and Watson. It is amazing how much the acceptable standards change in a hundred years."

"Really? I would love to hear about it, if you would not mind the telling."

"You mean you believe me? You really don't think that I'm crazy?"

"On the contrary. There is no other plausible explanation for your sudden presence here. When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Now, I would like a lesson on twentieth century manners, if you please."

"Ok, but I don't think you are going to like it."

"Why?"

"Because there aren't any. Or rather, there aren't many. As far as language goes, anything is acceptable in almost any situation. I must get called a bit*h or a whore at least once a day. People don't even stand up when a lady leaves the room anymore!" I had meant that last as a joke, but he seemed horrified.

"The human race must have sunk very low indeed for them to treat a lady so crudely."

"We all got over it really fast. I think that it would shock me more to have them pull out a chair for me to sit in then if they took a swing at me."

The look on his face was one of mingled horror and disgust. "You must be joking." His voice was tight with anger. **Why on earth would he be angry?** I thought to myself.

"Please tell me that you do not know anyone that would hit a woman."

I was still trying to fathom his anger, and nearly missed the implied question. "No, of course not, it is just a figure of speech." I would not look at him as I said this, and I think that he knew that I was lying, but he did not press the subject, and for that I was grateful.

After that awkward anecdote, talk turned to more pleasant things. As I removed the cookies from the oven, he asked me if I had attended school, and I told him that I was in my second year at Oxford. He asked what I was studying, and I told him that I was majoring in French, looking to be either a teacher or an interpreter. He asked me if I had given any thought as to what I would do here, and to his surprise, I had.

"Actually, I thought that I would advertise to see if anyone was looking for a person to teach French to their children. I figure, all parents want their kids to be bilingual, why not start when they are young?"

"That is a very good idea. I do not believe that even I would think of that. We will have it in the afternoon papers."

"Great!" We heard a bell sound somewhere in the house and Holmes stood. "That must be Watson; he said that he would be back this morning to check on you, make sure that you were still alive." 

"Oh that's really nice," I muttered. "Make sure that I'm still alive. Inspires a lot of confidence in my mental state, that does." I got the distinct impression that he was holding back laughter, but he was doing it so well that I really couldn't tell. In the next instant, Watson came into the kitchen, gave a violent start (I don't know if it was because I was up or because I was only wearing a nightgown, and I thought it would be rude to ask, so you will have to let your imagination run wild with that one), and said, "You should be in bed"

I heaved a dramatic sigh and replied, "Yes, so I have been told. However, after having been up for seven hours without having passed out, I think that I will be fine."

The good doctor was about to retort, but Holmes cut him off. "There is no use arguing with her, Watson, she is one of the most stubborn people that I know."

I turned on him. "And you came to this conclusion after having known me for, what, twenty minutes?"

"Yes." I was just itching to slap that smug look off his face, but before I could, Holmes continued. "Now, perhaps you could go back upstairs and dress while Watson and I discuss things that would not be suited for delicate female ears.

Again, I had the strong urge to hit him, but he had a point. I did need to put some clothes on. So I went. I didn't like it, but I went.

Back in the room that I had occupied, I found a dress laid out with a note from Mrs. Hudson saying that she would be happy to be of help with the dress if I needed it. Holmes, I thought, must have told her that I wasn't used to clothing like this. I rang for her, and she helped me into the corset that had to go on before the dress. The dress itself was rather plain, and in a shade of maroon that I liked very much. Mrs. Hudson also twisted my long black hair up onto the back of my head, and nearly made me pass out, poking me with the pins. Instead of going back down stares, I sat in one of the large overstuffed chairs that inhabited my room and thought about my situation. I could not help but notice that what had happened to me ran very closely with what I had written in my fic. My main character had been based on myself, so the French thing stood. I also remembered writing a fight in a dark alley, but I think that the details were a little bit different. All in all, I concluded, it was way too much of a coincidence for me to get thrown back in time _and_ into my own fic. It just could not happen. Could it?

~~ 

There you go. Chapter three and I am truly sorry about the wait. My computer was down so I couldn't even send this to my beta. Poor you people. Questions or comments? Review me and I shall answer as best I can. However, keep in mind that this story has I life of its own, so I may not be able to tell you some things. Also, remember that every thing in that bag of hers will be significant eventually. One more thing that I am sure is not clear. This is something of a diary kept by Anna. It isn't ever going to take diary form, but be more of a running narration of her life. And someone is reading it. 

R/R thank you!

~Anna~ 

Nip~ what gook at the bottom of chapter two? And I know about the beta, and yes I have one. And it took you bloody well long enough to review me, damn it! And he gave her opium because he didn't have aspirin on hand, happy?

Hare~ thank you for betaing (?). you'll see about the nasty substances in the bottles later…sorry about the spelling…I'm awful. 


	4. In Which I get a job

Um…hi? Also, there is something that you should know: this is not meant to be taken seriously. It is a funny fic that is meant to be taken with a grain of salt. I know it's been a long time, but here's the next chapter:

The next morning I went downstairs and found the kitchen empty again. I knew from what limited Cannon that I had read that Mrs. Hudson had only one day off, and it was late enough that she should have been up and at 'em. I barely had time to wonder where everyone was, when Mrs. Hudson came through the kitchen door at top speed, carrying an empty bucket. She rushed to the sink (A/N ~ I assume that they did have them, if not, bear with me) and started to fill the bucket. Over her shoulder, Mrs. Hudson told me that "Mr. Holmes set his laboratory on fire **again**! I **don't** know why he insists upon messing about with those terrible chemicals, but every now and again he does something insane, like setting my **house** on **fire**…"

"Mrs. Hudson, why don't you give me that bucket…just sit down here and relax. Your house is not going to burn down, I'll go help…" I hastily finished filling the bucket and raced up the stairs. I knew what door it was because of the smoke billowing out of it. I went in cautiously and saw Holmes and Watson surrounded by noxious fumes, grinning like maniacs. As I looked around for the huge fire that was going to burn down Mrs. Hudson's home, I saw a lit candle. True, it was larger than a normal candle, but there was no way it could have burned down the house.

Holmes must've seen me through the fumes, because he said to Watson, "Look, old boy, our good land lady has called in the fire brigade." He sounded very cheerful, as though he had just discovered something very important. And he was making jokes. This was so unlike the Holmes I thought I knew. I was almost tempted to run out of the room screaming, but I didn't think that that would go over very well, so I settled for a glare to end all glares.

Watson, in the spirit of the moment, decided to make a little funny of his own. "I say, Holmes, if looks could kill, you would be very dead right now!" It really wasn't that funny, but Holmes laughed. Hard. And his voice was squeaky. Actually, now that I thought about it, his first comment was high and squeaky as well. "What's wrong with you? You sound like a hamster on helium." The idea struck me as it came out of my mouth. "Holmes! You **haven't **been sucking on helium have you???"

He looked rather offended, as he replied, "Of course not I was simply testing the properties of said element when the balloon (aka silk bag thing filled with helium) that contained it in went over this candle. Mrs. Hudson was walking by when it exploded. 

"Right. Sure. You may want to go down and apologize to Mrs. Hudson, though. She is sitting down in the kitchen having a nervy b."

" A what?" the helium was rapidly vanishing, making him sound more like a normal man than like a drugged up small furry creature. 

"A nervy b. A nervous breakdown. She thinks that you are going to burn her house down."

"Perhaps you are right," Holmes thought out loud. "It would not bode well to have our landlady angry with us." This last was obviously directed to Watson. I rolled my eyes and shook my head as I made to leave the room. Iron fingers clamped down on my arm and I spun around to face the steel gray eyes of the Great Detective. "Why did you offer to help put out this fire?"

I bit back the sarcastic remark that almost dripped off my tongue. He was serious. I didn't understand that at all. Why wouldn't I want to help put out the fire that threatened one of the most famous addresses in both history and literature? Another thought occurred to me on the heels of the last: he didn't know that his address would be famous. I didn't do it to save the people as much as I did it to save the house and all that it meant to me and to the rest of the world.

He must have seen these thoughts cross my face, because he released me and waited patiently for me to answer him. "I did it for what you and this house will be to the rest of the world." Again I turned to leave, and again he grabbed my arm.

"What do you mean, what I will be to the world?"

"Don't you think that what you are doing will have an impact on the rest of the world? To almost every one who has ever read the stories that Watson wrote, you are The Great Detective, not even capable of doing wrong. I wouldn't have been able to live with myself if I let you die in a fire. Even a non-existent one."

I had shocked Holmes into silence, which was rare in itself. I took the opportunity to finally leave the smelly laboratory and take refuge in my room, for yet another thought occurred to me: that was not the first time that I had given that speech. I had written it in the fic that I had written. The ultimate test would be the response to the ad in the paper. I took a deep breath and set myself to wait.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Over dinner that night, I was informed that I now had a position as a governess. Holmes had 'taken the liberty of accepting for me' because it was, apparently, an offer I couldn't refuse. I would be teaching French-speaking ten-year-old twin girls the English language. Their father, the man who had called that afternoon, had serious privacy issues, so I was to continue to live at Baker Street. The arrangement for my rent had been settled as well: I would do all of the cooking for the house, leaving Mrs. Hudson quite a bit more free time, that she used to brush up on her quilting skills. I must have nodded or shown some other sign of acquiescence, because conversation turned to the case Holmes was currently working on. 

I kept going over these details in my mind, thinking that they sounded too familiar to be entirely coincidence. My mind, however, refused to cooperate, and I left it for later, listening in on the details, or rather lack thereof, of their newest case. 

It appeared to be rather. Apparently, someone was stealing artifacts from the British Museum, and murdering all of the guards that had the unlucky night shift the night that the newly dubbed 'cat burglar' decided to strike. The latest thing to turn up missing, along with three dead guards, was a Renaissance era golden box that had once held the manuscripts of DiVincci.

"I do not know what is wrong with me, Watson." Holmes lamented over dinner. "I cannot seem to find anything linking this thief to a living man. He leaves neither fingerprints nor footprints, and his lock picks leave no marks upon the lock. I must admit: I am at a loss."

"Do not despair, Holmes. He is only human: he will make a mistake, and you will catch him" at that comment, I wondered if Watson was always so optimistic. From the little that I had heard, the case was impossible.

"What makes you two so sure that this thief is a man? Why couldn't it be a woman?"

"My dear Anna," Holmes began in the most patronizing voice that I had ever had the displeasure of having to listen to. "It simply could not be a woman because a woman, if she even had the forethought to plan something as elaborate as these robberies, would have neither the physical strength nor the strength of character to go through with it"

I waited in vain for a 'Just kidding' to follow this, the most sexist thing that I had ever heard I'm my entire life. Not surprisingly, it didn't come. I stood from the table, blinking rapidly, and left the room, biting my lip in the effort to keep from saying what was in my mind. From the hallway, I heard the unmistakable drawl of an amused Englishman say, "Holmes, I think you've offended our guest."

"I believe that you are right, Watson." To my surprise, Holmes sounded almost remorseful.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Later that night, as I was lying in bed, all of the odd feelings of déjà vu that I had been experiencing since my arrival in 1892 clicked into place. I had written them all in my fic. The gray haired man with twin girls, the mini explosion in the lab, and the case. I knew the ending of the case! But I couldn't tell them; it might have an impact on history. 

I took a deep breath, trying to contain my enthusiasm. Fine, I couldn't tell them the end, but I could help solve it. The only problem was that I couldn't remember what I had done to my main character. I knew that I had intended to kill her, but could not remember if I had gone through with it. Well, there was nothing I could do about it, so as I drifted off to sleep, I lay wondering…no my beta reader was too good, or someone would have mentioned it…it couldn't be…

Good? Bad? Indifferent? Review and let me know. 


	5. In Which we find out where Holmes learne...

Here it is: the long awaited (Ha, I wish!) chapter 5. Um…also, there are a lot of differences between the information in this chapter as opposed to all the rest. I haven't had the chance to go back and fix them all…I'm going to re-work the whole fic here eventually… when it's finished…but go for the info in this chapter…the rest of the story will follow in much the same vein. Sorry about the confusion!

I woke up in the middle of the night, covered in a cold sweat. My throat was raw from screaming and I heard the sound of pounding feet in the hall outside my room and the door was thrown open. Holmes, with Watson right behind him, was framed in the doorway of my room. The echo of my cry rang through it. "I'm a Mary Sue!"

"Good God, woman, I expected you to have a gun to your head!" Not surprisingly, both men looked rather put out to have been turned out of their beds at this ungodly hour of the morning for nothing more serious than what I am sure they considered to be female vapors.

"Sorry, nightmare. Was I really that loud?" Trying not to giggle was harder than it would seem, considering the look I was getting from those gray eyes. I could see why hardened criminals quailed before him, but he'd obviously never glared at a girl before; he looked like a moron.

"Yes, you really _were_ that loud." Holmes grumbled as he went back off to bed. He would be grouchy the next morning. Watson was still standing in the doorway, looking at me as if I was going to either shatter or stand up and kill him.

"John, I'm fine. I promise. Go back to bed." I did my best to look sincere, and I think he bought it. In any event, he left. That was what I was after; I needed time to think.

A Mary Sue, for anyone who is not familiar with the term, is a female that takes on the perfect persona of where ever she is placed. In the Victorian London of Sherlock Holmes, for instance, Mary Sue would be a crack shot, an excellent detective, able to play the violin as well as the piano forte, discover the criminal or the case (or both) before Holmes even knew what he was looking for, as well as being beautiful, sexy, and all around perfect. Also, the character of the author's choice would invariably fall in love with Mary Sue. If that was what I turned into when I got sent back in time, I would shoot myself in the head and save Holmes and Watson the trouble. Wouldn't I?

Well, I thought, lets take stock, shall we? I had no musical talent whatsoever. At all. I had even gotten thrown out of a music class once; the teacher said I was hopeless. I refused to learn to shoot on principle: I wouldn't want anyone to shoot at me, so why should I learn to shoot at him or her? I always turned to the end of a mystery novel, to find out who did it, so that put me in the clear for solving Holmes' case for him. I personally didn't think that I had much, as far as looks went. Yeah, I had nice eyes, but that was as far as it went. They were blue. Not very impressive. My hair wasn't anything special, reaching down to the middle of my back and halfway between black and brown (so basically mud-colored) and it curled when it was not blown-dry. I was reasonably sure that there weren't any blow-dryers in Victorian London. It would curl. Tightly. I was very short, barely making 5'2" in my bare feet. That's without shoes on. The only thing really going for me was that I had really good vision. That wasn't really a turn on in my century, but hey, who knows? The only real thing that I wouldn't object to about being an MS was the romance involved. I hadn't had a serious boyfriend in a while, and I needed something. So if Holmes or Watson (who really wasn't as fat as most stories and pictures portray him to be) started hitting on me, I wouldn't object. Not that I expected it. Holmes thought that I was a nuscence, and Watson thought I was nuts. But most MS stories started out that way… Shaking myself, I decided that I had confused myself enough for one night, and prepared to go back to sleep.

Tomorrow would be an interesting day.

I woke up again when the sun hit my face at about seven o'clock. Unwilling to head off to my first day of work with small children without a decent shower, I went in search of the bathroom. The room that I found had a giant bathtub in the centre, but no shower. And it hit me again: I was in the 19th century. They didn't have showers then.

I took a fast bath, not wanting to spend the entire day freezing after a cold bath (I wasn't sure they had hot running water yet), and did my best to wash my hair while sitting down. It worked, but my hair was a mass of tangles. Tangles that were already starting to curl. Curses! Mayhap I would make good on my old threat to cut it all off. Ah well, food for thought. I dressed in the clothing that Mrs. Hudson had loaned me, having to ring her up to help me with the corset. I was really starting to hate this century.

When the rest of the house came in for the breakfast (hot buttered scones), I had my hair combed out if not put up. Holmes looked at me for a moment, before suggesting that I do something with the mop. Not his exact words but close enough. The look he gave me though, it was as if I had made him relive a memory, one that he enjoyed but didn't take out often. Weird. Very weird, but perhaps not unpleasant. Herm, I wasn't liking the train of my thoughts, I'd have to do something about it, later of course, now I had the prospect of a meal across from…oh dear perhaps I had better deal with the thoughts sooner. Well then again, I was a Mary Sue, what was the point of being a Mary Sue if one couldn't even act like one? Huh? No. Flirting with the Great Detective was not a good idea. Not only would it screw up the whole Mary Russell thing (who was as far from a Mary Sue as it was possible to be, baring the same first name), but I would have my heart broken in a century that I was unfamiliar with. Never a good idea, that; there weren't any Ben & Jerry's shops around to gain weight in in the nineteenth century. Sigh. Oh well. Maybe I would stumble over that burglar they were looking for. Mary Sues' were supposed to be good at that, weren't they?

The rattling of the newspaper brought me back into the real world. "Anything interesting?" I addressed the question to both of them, thinking that it would be Watson that would answer, but to my great surprise, it was Holmes who spoke up.

"Nothing of merit in the case at hand. Aren't you starting with Mr. Brown today?"

Holy crap, he was right! I'd forgotten between the bathroom and the breakfast table. I'm sure that I gave the both of them one of my famous deer-in-the-headlights looks as I dashed up the stairs to try and do something with my hair. Something that wouldn't make me look like a hooker in this time. I had never been good at getting it to do things it didn't want to do, and getting it to sit in a nice pile on the top of my head was not something that it would want to do. I swear, the mop had a life of its own sometimes.

My indistinct cursing at the mirror in the bathroom must have penetrated into the dining room, because the next thing I knew, Holmes was leaning on the doorframe, laughing at my feeble attempts at controlling the masses. Of my hair, of course. I had wondered, as I am sure most everyone else has, after reading the Mary Russell novels, where Sherlock Holmes had learned to do a woman's hair so well. On that rainy morning, I found out that his guinea pig in the matter was myself. Oh joyous day.

Let me tell you, ladies, he didn't start out all that good at hairdressing. He nearly put me sleep stroking the brush through my (insanely long and annoyingly curly) hair. I sat there with my eyes half closed hoping that he would never stop, and thinking that life as a Mary Sue really wasn't that bad, if this was what I got, when he started gently tugging on the mass of dark brown locks as he twisted it up. Mmmmmm, nice.

Until he jabbed my scalp with a wickedly sharp hairpin. "OUCH!" I jumped as the inch of pin was taken from its resting-place in my skin. I laughed as I looked in the mirror: Holmes was looking horror-stricken, the almost elegant twist was falling out around my ears, and I was due to leave for my first day with the kids in less than twenty minutes. Absurdly, it struck me as being incredibly, hilariously funny. After a moment of watching my helpless giggles, Holmes joined me, gripping the edge of the sink for support. He realized a heartbeat later how close to me that put him, his arm nearly around my waist as I was directly in front of him facing the mirror. I turned toward him, without conscious thought, and both of us froze, just looking at each other.

Then the spell, such as it was, was broken. I turned back to the mirror, taking the brush from his (trembling?) fingers, and got my hair up into something respectable. When I turned to leave, Holmes was already gone. I didn't know what had just happened, but it was not something that I was likely to forget anytime soon.

I heard a carriage pull to the door, and my stomach gave a funny lurch; my days as a working woman in Victorian London had begun.

A/N sorry for this having been so long in coming, and also for it being relatively short. I like it, although there isn't any actual plot yet. It is coming, you have my word. Review!


	6. In Which I can't think of a title

Chapter 6!

The girls I was to tutor in English spoke both that language and the language of their birth flawlessly. When I pointed this out to my employer, he looked surprised that I had commented. When I pressed the issue, he looked at me with cold black eyes and a smile and said,

"I advertised for a governess. It was mearly a benefit that you spoke both languages." That shut me up. This Mr. Brown guy was really starting to scare me. He was so…cold. I felt bad for the girls; growing up with a cold father myself (although he was a lot more than cold when he had enough to drink), I knew how these kids must've felt.

Their names were Marie and Sophie, and they were overjoyed that they had a new "playmate". I was taken by the hands and lead to a pink playroom. There was an incredible amount of artifacts that should have been in a museum littering various flat surfaces in the halls that I passed through on the way to the room the girls played in. I saw a golden box on a table that looked distinctly Renaissance, much like the box that was recently reported missing from the BM. Interesting. I would have to remember to let Holmes know about that when I got home.

Sophie, Marie, and I spent the morning playing with dolls, the afternoon in the park, and in the early evening, they insisted that they read me their favorite book. They took turns on the pages, alternating from English to French, just to prove they could do it. They were very bright girls, but they had way too much energy for my peace of mind. I would really have to watch them.

I was driven home at seven in the same carriage that had brought me there that morning, and went strait to the kitchen to see about dinner.

By the time Holmes and Watson got back, I had resolved to tell them about the box, but nothing else. They could solve the case on their own, and I only remembered bits and pieces of the case that I had written anyway. And, it was entirely possible that it would turn out differently than I had written it.

Before I got the chance to break my news, Holmes had proven himself to be in a horrible mood. He'd callously shot down both Watson and myself, leaving us to retreat, licking our wounds. Then, remembering the contents of the bag that had come with me to the nineteenth century, I had a brilliant idea: a practical joke on Holmes. This would be fun. All I had to do was convince Watson to go along with it.

Holmes was lurking out in the street in disguise trying his best to scare the passersby (and probably doing something important too) when I broached the subject of a practical joke to Watson.

"Hey Doc? How come you let Holmes boss you around like that?" I asked him, trying to sound as innocent as I could, with mediocre results. He raised an eyebrow at me, but answered my question seriously.

"Because he needs to let out his energy. If he chooses to vent upon me, that is what will happen. I can hardly stop him. And he usually apologizes." That last was added as an afterthought. _Wow,_ I thought. _Watson must really like Holmes if he lets him beat on him like that_. He was so loyal, and a lot smarter that he painted himself in his writings. At dinner, he'd shared a very intelligent and valid theory about the case that Holmes was working on. Holmes, being the nice man he was, cut the legs out from under him in three short sentences. Watson has been silent for the rest of the meal. Revenge would be sweet.

"Have you ever thought of giving him a taste of his own medicine?" I had obviously piqued his interest, and moved to settle in front of him. "Here's what I had in mind…"

The front door slammed open in response to Watson's 'yell of pain'. He winked conspiratorially at me just before the sitting room door slammed open. Watson, by the way, was just as good an actor as Holmes was. He just failed to mention that in any of his writings. Holmes took in the 'bloody' sight: Watson, holding his wrist as 'blood' oozed around the letter opener that was imbedded in the back of his hand. Or looked like it was, at any rate. I was standing to one side with a hand over my mouth trying not to giggle and give the game away, and Holmes probably thought I was trying not to be sick, which was just as well. Holmes, it seemed, was frozen in place, staring at Watson's injured appendage. Suddenly, he leapt into action, without a word to either of us. Holmes grabbed Watson's hand, then stopped short when the sheered off letter opener fell off his hand, leaving it well and whole. Holmes froze again as a giggle slipped out.

"What is going on here?" his soft voice positively dripped acid.

Running the risk of a lashing from the sharp side of his tongue, I said the first thing that came into my mind.

"You, my friend, have been punk'd." Watson, to my never-ending surprise, started laughing then, and Holmes' face relaxed ever so slightly.

"Then you are unharmed?" he asked his friend softly. Watson nodded at him, unable to speak. "This, I presume, is redress for my ghastly behavior at dinner?" another nod. "And, " his head swiveled so he could look at me. I was suddenly very nervous under his piercing gaze, remembering the incident in the bathroom this morning. Holmes, it seemed, was having similar thoughts; he flushed and broke eye contact. "And, I deduce that the means were brought from the future."

I grinned, nerves dissipating as I stepped into more familiar territory. "You deduce correctly. It's liquid latex, and a very good brand of stage blood. I was minoring in theater at university. Stage makeup was my specialty. And more specifically, wounds. I'll show you the stuff, if your interested…" I trailed off, uncomfortable again under the light in his eyes.

Needless to say, he was interested, and the rest of the evening was spent in debate over which century's make up was more believable. I, of course, won. Latex won out over grease paint any day of the week. I demonstrated the method of applying the stuff, (which smelled really really bad by the way,) waiting for it to dry, covering over the area with a base that matched the skin, applying the eye-shadow that made just the faintest hit of a bruise, and finally, the application of the fake blood. He watched as I put it on my own hand, making a huge gash from palm to wrist. Rolled up cotton gave it a three-dimensional look, and the red corn starch-and-water mixture dribbled down my arm. Holmes looked at me in ill-concealed wonderment; murmuring, "You never cease to surprise me" so softly I am not sure to this day that I really heard it.

Late that night, after Watson had gone to bed, Holmes and I were alone in front of the fire in the sitting room sitting side by side on the sofa, too close for personal comfort. I stood up to go to bed myself, and crossed in front of him. I felt his fingers on my wrist, keeping me in the room. He stood as I turned, and I gasped at the close proximity. Before I could say a word, before I could even draw my next breath, he leaned down and brushed his lips across my forehead.

When I opened eyes that I hadn't realized that I'd closed, Holmes was gone. I took a deep breath, held it, then let it out. I would have to talk to him about this. Just not tonight. With a smile I couldn't get rid of, I took myself to bed for a night I was sure held pleasant dreams.

Sleep alluded me that night, although I had more than enough fodder for dreams. I spent the time between midnight and dawn thinking about what would happen if I couldn't get back home before the conclusion of this case. My main character had died, been shot by the man that Holmes and Watson were trying to catch. Everything that I had written about my character had happened to me, and Mr. Brown evoked a feeling of déjà vu much like everything else that had happened to me in the last several days. He was just so…I didn't even know how to describe him. Creepy was as close as I could come. His kids, however, were the cutest things ever to be born, so I would just have to stick it out, for them, and hope that their father wouldn't shoot me.


	7. In Which I Fall In Love

Chapter 7

If this doesn't make sense, I really want to know, so tell me in a review…I have a tendency to forget that everyone cant read my mind…rather that no one can read my mind…se let me know!

I had been working successfully with the Browns for the better part of two months when it happened. Not only did it bring me closer to the end of my own story, it brought me closer to Sherlock Holmes.

Holmes knocked on my door. I opened it perhaps half and inch, hoping my face wasn't entirely visible.

"Yes?" I asked softly. I sounded as if I had a cold.

"Dinner…"

He trailed off, seemingly unsure of himself, for once. I was surprised he or Watson hadn't seen it themselves…but whatever.

"It's on the sideboard. I should have thought you would have seen it." I still sounded awful, but there wasn't much I could do about it. He looked at me the way he would look at a client, and I knew he was about to take the liberty of decuding my current situation.

"Are you coming down?" he asked me exaggeratedly, as if speaking to a small child.

"No," I quipped, too quickly. His eyebrows shot up, so I added, "I've already eaten. Now skitter. It's getting cold," with some degree of self-preservation. I tried to smile, even though I knew he couldn't see it. He nodded at me, then turned and walked down the hall. I left the door open until I saw him go down the stairs, then slammed it. I shouted an apology through the door, just in case he cared, then threw myself into my chair, gazing into the fire.

Perhaps an hour later, they both made a huge (and might I add, loud) show of going to bed early, or at least retiring to their rooms and slamming the doors. When I was reasonably sure they weren't coming back out, I crept out of my own room as quietly as I could and made my way, in the dark, to the study.

I stoked the fire just a little and curled up in Holmes' favorite basket chair, wrapping the afghan from the divan around my shoulders. I sighed deeply, remembering my day from hell. It still didn't seem true to me; it didn't seem possible; his kids were so normal, too normal to live with a man who would…

A hand on my shoulder brought me back to the present and I looked up into Holmes' eyes. I looked away.

"I thought you went to bed."

"Anna…why didn't you say something? Watson or I may have been able-"

"To do nothing at all. It was a fluke, I'm sure. He'll apologize when they come back from the Continent, and that'll be the end of it," I told him, still refusing to meet that misty gray gaze.

"You are quite right. I will not have you in the same house with a man who would treat a woman in such a fashion."

It was obvious, I knew. I had a matched set of handprints on my face, captured in my pale skin by the harsh blacks and blues of bruises. He knelt in front of me, cupping my chin gently in his warm, dry hands. He tilted my face up to the meager light of the fire to survey the damages; he had hit me quite hard, leaving a clear imprint or both sides of his right hand and, coincidentally, both sides of a heavy, engraved signet ring. He let me go and sighed.

"Holmes, do they take you aside in college and tell you where to hit women so it hurts the most?" I inquired bitterly. He stood abruptly and turned to the fire, resting his hands on the mantle. After a long moment, he turned back to me and pulled me to my feet.

He cupped my bruised face in his long hands, leaned in close and whispered, "I would hope that, by now, you know that neither Watson or I would strike a woman, least of all you."

I pulled out of his hold and turned away, hugging my elbows. "Of course I know that, Holmes. I wasn't referring to you specifically. I've just had… some bad experiences. I'm sorry if I upset you."

When next Holmes spoke, he was very close behind me; I hadn't even heard him move. "That is how you acquired the scar on your cheek."

I laughed softly.

"Yes, although I thought I had it covered well. After my mother died, Dad hit the bottle hard." I couldn't imagine why I was telling an almost perfect stranger the intimate details of my past, but I felt I could trust him. I felt his hands come down on my shoulders, his fingers moving in slow circles, alleviating the tension this story inevitably brought to my muscles. "After a few years, he was a full-blown alcoholic. Not long after that, he started knocking me around. At first, it was just little things, hitting me when I burned dinner and things like that....."

I was shaking, and I was fighting hard to keep the tears in my eyes from rolling down my face. Holmes was still behind me, radiating strength and listening silently. "It only got worse from there. As much as I don't want to admit it, I broke. It was my seventeenth birthday, actually, and he came home so drunk he could barely stand. I don't remember what I said, but it was obviously the wrong thing, because he came at me and struck me with a wicked backhand. He still wore his wedding ring, which had a small diamond set into the band. One of the prongs slashed across my face. He backed down when he saw the blood, but I left. Just...walked out the door, didn't even look back. I was on the redeye flight to London that night, and I've never returned. I'd already been accepted to Oxford, so I just moved in a little earlier than they expected. This new…thing just brought back some bad memories...."

My voice broke on that last word, and before I had another conscious thought, I was sobbing into his waistcoat again. His arms came hesitantly around my waist and he held me close, murmuring nonsense into my ear in an almost boyish effort to be comforting.

I pulled back when I could take a breath without sobbing, and looked up at him again. There was a soft and rather introspective look about his face. "I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes." I whispered, "I don't usually do that, but I think you've got me figured by now..... I-I'm sorry," I finished lamely. I looked away, but couldn't quite bring myself to disengage from his embrace. It occurred to me that this was rather Mary-Sue-ish, but I didn't really care anymore. He said nothing for a moment, so I looked away, afraid I stepped over some line.

He caught my chin and gently brought my eyes to meet his. "Anna, I never want to hear you apologize for anything like this again," he said, his voice oddly hoarse.

"If luck holds, I won't have to," I replied, smiling up at him impishly and with some degree of new confidence. He looked at me for a long moment, his arms tightening almost unconsciously around me. His face softened into a look that I have every intention of taking to my grave; he looped a hand around my neck and pulled my face to his. I gasped at the unexpected (yeah right!) pleasure found at the pressure of his lips against mine, and he took full advantage of the situation, deepening the kiss and pulling me closer against him. We stayed that way for what seemed like a century, one that I never wanted to end, but of course that little matter about needing air broke the kiss at last.

He swallowed and looked down at me again, "I- I'm sorry, I-" he stammered.

I cut him off with a firmly raised hand.

"Sherlock Holmes, I never want to hear you apologize for anything like that again."


End file.
